


Sugar and Burnt Toast

by Thysanotus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Erotica, M/M, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-23
Updated: 2005-12-23
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thysanotus/pseuds/Thysanotus
Summary: Set post OotP. I started this fic a while ago, in response to a prompt from Lise (Remus/Ron, an aeroplane, and “What colour do you want”) and somehow it morphed into an almost-sequel for “Woodsmoke and Cinnamon”, although it’s not necessary to read one to understand the other. It’s unbeta-d, so as always, feedback is muchly appreciated. I’m especially unsure about the way the tenses change through the story (which is intentional, I might just add).





	Sugar and Burnt Toast

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

Ron wakes with a start, kicking off the sweaty sheet. The house is closeted in silence, but the sound of his heart hammering in his ears seems louder than any noise he's heard before. As the terror fades, leaving behind echoes in his breathing, he hears the regular night-time noises once more - Harry’s soft, even snores across the room, the ghoul clanking softly in the attic, and George murmuring in his sleep on the other side of the wall.  
  
He swallows dryly. He's thirsty, but his bladder is ready to burst. Careful not to wake Harry, he slides himself to the edge of the bed, and pads his way to the door. Taking hold of the handle, he takes a breath as he eases it down, squinting his eyes shut as though that would prevent the squeaking.  
  
He pauses at the top of the stairs, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. A flicker of movement passes by the bottom of the stairs. Ron freezes. Relaxing a second later, he realises it was just Professor Lupin. He probably couldn’t sleep either, Ron thinks, as it was getting closer to full moon.  
  
Stepping quietly down the stairs, he avoids the one loose step from memory. A faint line of light drifts into the hallway from underneath the kitchen door. He opens it gently, and sees Professor Lupin hunched at the table, shoulders shaking.  
  
Ron feels out of place. What were you supposed to do when a bloke started crying? Hell, he wasn’t even that good when a girl was crying. The last time Hermione had cried, it had taken him forever just to put an arm around her shoulders and pat her clumsily. Eventually, she’d shrugged his arm off and glared at him angrily. The tearstains on her face reproached him as she told him to leave her alone.  
  
The sound of Lupin’s repressed sobbing makes Ron feel wretched. He hesitates in the doorway, biting at his lower lip. Some strange sixth sense must have alerted Remus to his presence, as the older man glances over his shoulder. Ron moves forward slowly, the tiled floor cold against his bare feet.  
  
He smiles at Ron, eyes watery through the tears. Ron balances awkwardly on one foot, the other leg bent behind him, foot touching the back of his calf. His mum had asked Professor Lupin to stay with them after – and she always lowered her voice when she said the next part – Sirius’s passing. She thought it would help Harry through his grief as well. Ron remembers her sending Harry to see Lupin at Grimmauld Place at the beginning of summer, but Harry won’t talk about what happened.  
  
Ron doesn’t think he’s ever seen Harry and Professor Lupin together since, though. They always seem to be in groups of other people, their fixed, slightly strained smiles becoming a part of them, as much as the twin’s mischief, Ginny’s independence and his own awkwardness are a part of each of them.  
  
Now that he thinks about it, this is the first time he’s ever seen Lupin alone. The man usually has a hovering crowd round him, in the form of Ginny, his mum, and Hermione. They take it in turns to bring him hot drinks, chocolate, and the newspaper.  
  
Lupin’s voice breaks into Ron’s thoughts.  
  
“I don’t bite, you know.” He makes a wry face. “Perhaps that wasn’t the right phrase.”  
  
Ron grins, suddenly losing his shyness with the man’s joke. He crosses the floor, and sits in the chair next to Lupin. He’s all knees and elbows as he sprawls there, and Remus feels his breath catch at the coltish beauty.  
  
Ron focuses on the dish of sweets on the table. He notices they appear to be formed into shapes of muggle transportation. Another one of his Dad’s indulgences, he suspects. Lying on the top is a blue aeroplane, and next to that is a green car. He is taken by surprise, a little, when Lupin offers him the dish.  
  
“Erm… thankyou,” he says, unsure of what to do.  
  
“Go on, take one. Look, what colour do you want?” Lupin asks, shaking the dish impatiently. Ron notices the trembling of his hands as he sets the dish down, and opens his mouth before his brain can step in to stop him.  
  
“Are you alright, since, you know, since, Sirius died?” He wants to kick himself as soon as the words spill into the sudden silence, shattering on the floor between them. Lupin turns away from him, a blank mask dropping over his features. Ron looks in the opposite direction.  
  
Silence prevails over the kitchen. Lupin drops his head into his hands, leaving Ron helpless once more. Ron stretches his hand out, making contact with Lupin’s shoulder. He can feel the tension under his fingers as he gingerly touches them to the threadbare cotton.  
  
“It’s okay Ron. I’m not a fragile vase; I’m hardly going to shatter into a thousand tiny pieces because someone mentions a name.” He raises an eyebrow at Ron.  
  
Ron remembers another hot summer. The twins, full of exuberance and sugar, chasing him around the sitting room, and the sudden silence as his mother’s favourite vase launched itself off the mantle, flying end over end onto the floor below. He remembers the fear and worry that congealed in his stomach as he looked at the shards of crystal throwing dancing rainbows around the room.  
  
Remus looks at the lines of worry crossing the boy’s – he mentally corrects himself – young man’s face, and sighs inwardly. “Ron, I’ve lost many friends in this battle. And yes, Sirius was more than a friend – “ his breath hitches awkwardly over the next few words “- but everyone has lost someone they’ve loved in this struggle.” He looks at his fingers, toying with the blue aeroplane. “And I think we’re going to lose more people before this battle is won.”  
  
Ron stretches his hand carefully – like a starfish, he thinks absently – splayed out, the fingers spread wide, on Remus’s shoulder blade. He can feel the hitches in the other man’s breathing, feel the gentle rhythm of his speech, and it feels the most natural thing in the world to slide the hand along Remus’s back, curving it around the opposite shoulder and laying his cheek on the shoulder closest to him.  
  
They sit like that, in the harsh light of the kitchen. The lighting has bleached out even the vivid red of Ron’s hair, so when Remus leans down to press a kiss into the tangled mop it appears more chestnut than red. Ron shifts sleepily at the last moment, and Remus finds himself kissing the boy’s lips. By rights, he should be pulling away, he tells himself. It feels so comforting, so – and it’s just what he needs now, his mind insists. Somewhere, a more rational part of himself is saying he’ll regret it, and didn’t Harry try this before? You did the right thing then, would it be so hard to do it now?  
  
From the depths, the wolf is rising, and the rational part of Remus notices critically that the kiss grows harder and fiercer, and Ron is beginning to respond accordingly.  
  
Abruptly, Remus pulls away. What is he doing? What would Sirius say? He can almost hear him now. “Moony, he’s a kid. What were you thinking? Although, we were doing far worse at his age.” Then would come the familiar laugh, as familiar to him as his own scent. He drops his head in his hands, resting his elbows on the table. His shoulders shakes again as he heaves with dry sobs.  
  
Ron opens his mouth, but thinks better of it. Running a finger thoughtfully over his lips – he can taste sugar and burnt toast – he moves towards the doorway, pausing to look over his shoulder at the huddled figure at the kitchen table.  
  
Once upstairs in bed, he will listen for Harry’s snores, and, reassured the other boy is asleep, he will slip a hand into his pyjama trousers. His cock will be hard and nudging his stomach, and he will wrap his hand around it and be soothed by the familiar action. The gentle tugging will be rhythmical, and a short, drowsy time later he will grunt twice and roll onto his side, forgetting to clean up the sticky mess.  
  
The next morning he will be embarrassed by Harry’s knowing grin and will forestall any questions about the previous night by showering for half an hour, prompting mocking by the twins at the breakfast table and a thoughtful stare from Remus that will make him pink all over.


End file.
